Brooding hums, willows scatter. Crimson blood, against feet that pitter-patter. Each step silent, wracked through my bones. Keep that spine high, make sure it holds. An unfolding gap between me and the land, facing away, a tough hand. My acts were not noble; brought forth a heap of a storm. Red rain, dragged along the castle's bricks. A crimson house, fallen as though it had been made of mere sticks. A king fallen, a throne abandoned. The people flood the gates, freedom unfamiliar. They do not know their needs, awaiting a ruler, they need to be apprehended. Lies from a silver spoon, one I couldn't resist slicing the fingers off of before the time hit noon. They shriek, "Hoorah!", applauding my calculated move. I do not speak, I walk away. The silence itself will behead them soon. Their applause fades, the realization sinking in. Whom are sheep to flock to, now that I've slain their king? They hurdle for the gates, others for the gold. Each to their own, after all, they have egos to uphold. Children with eyes uncovered watch in horror, their mothers pushing them aside as they flee from their unwanted lover. Each to their own, they say. Yet without a king, they all fall into a chaotic dismay. Generations pass, yet their minds never change. As slain as he lays, his last words they will always obey.